Well, Ruffle My Feathers

How hard can it be to get dressed in the morning? I mean realllly. I think we both know that’s a rhetorical question because in this case, practice really doesn’t make perfect. I’ve been dressing myself for what, about 20 years now? And I still don’t know a sensible outfit from one that’s going to make damn sure my oesophagus is crippled with super sexy Strepsils breath this winter. A practical coat? Nah, I’ll be alreeet – I wore my hair down especially to keep ma ears warm pet.

What else is a gal gonna do when she’s got a pile up of fine ass flamenco sleeves smuggled inside her coat? Like a bird of paradise I will puff out my chest chins, fan out those frills and flap until I can’t flap no more, ‘cos if there’s one thing I can do in this life, it’s to make Sir David Attenborough proud of my Planet Earth wardrobe.

The practicalities of being a charming bird of paradise/ flamenco dancer, however, are a little harder to uphold when you’re not living it up in a tropical rainforest (although, ain’t no way my hair could deal with that humidity to be fair). In real life here on planet what the f*ck, there’s only so much bare shoulder flashing you can do in December before ya nipples are, ahem, red raw and ready to cut glass. Come on, too much information doesn’t exist around here fellas, you should know that by now. If I went too far, or made you wish you weren’t reading this part aloud to your dad then it’s mission accomplished as far as I’m concerned. So yeah, I took a coat along for the ride in the end, ‘cos ya know bleak winter and all that – but for the most part I was that girl whose mother let her go out without enough layers.

I’m getting to the main outfit deets I swear, I just do a lot of fluffing around first. Ya see first I take the p*ss out of myself, then I talk about real blogger things like how to wear statement sleeves and things that might actually be useful to you. Though, tbh, I’m not really comfortable with telling you how to wear something because you’re you and I’m me, who am I to tell you how to wear something when I’m clearly just hatching out of this egg myself? No one should tell you how to dress, so let’s rephrase that *reeeewind* Now I get to the part where I talk about real ‘blogger’ things like how you could style your statement sleeves, should you want to embrace your inner bird of paradise too.

So, I think the sleeves are looking after themselves up top, but elsewhere on the bod I’ve gone for my faded Joni jeans and oxblood mules. And when I say faded, I mean to say worn to death and now featuring thigh rips from where my quads have genuinely tried to burst free, just like Professor Klump did that time. But I stillll wear ’em don’t I. Also, turns out going coatless wasn’t my only mistake that day – the mules, they’re another one. Beautiful though they are, you can’t go braless and sockless all at once. It’s like an unwritten rule, you know like boobs out or legs out.

To sum up then! I didn’t wear a coat, a bra or socks in December and I was COLD. What can I say, Kylie Jenner called it… 2016 is the year of realising stuff. So, maybe I was never meant to be the bird of paradise in all this after all, but more of a venus fly trap character, striking whenever food lands in and around my mouth. Yeah, I think that’s more relatable. Plus, I can’t dance like they can, not unless you count springing into a roly poly across the floor when drunk as dancing.

Oh, before I go, shout out to the M&S Lamb And Mint crisps for getting me through tonight – hand cooked in small batches and meatier than any crisp should ever really be. I mean, you know you’ve had a good time when you go to bed with potato dustings in your hair. But these were not just any old potatoes. These were Hertfordshire potatoes.

In other news my nipples still aren’t talking to me. That’ll probably be down to the whole braless at sub-zero thing. It’s a night on the sofa patching things up *literally* with some Sudocrem I think! Love you bye.